


the profession of my fingers

by coloredink



Series: The Cinnamon Peeler [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday Presents, M/M, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, electrodes, there is no cannibalism in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-01
Updated: 2011-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gives John a gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the profession of my fingers

Sherlock appears at the top of the stairs, grinning so widely that John's heart skips a beat. But it's a real smile, not Sherlock's shamming-it-for-the-normals smile, even if it's a bit more manic than usual. He takes the cake box from John's hands and puts it in the refrigerator. John is immediately suspicious.

"What is it?" he asks.

"What is what?" Sherlock shuts the refrigerator and turns around, leaning against the refrigerator. He's still grinning like a Cheshire Cat. John is highly unnerved.

"You texted me," says John. "To come home. So I did." He sits down on the couch, after determining that there is nothing sharp or toxic on it. "So what is it you need?"

"It's nothing that _I_ need." Sherlock rubs his hands together. "I got you a present." He fishes a small box out of his pocket and tosses it to John, who catches it more out of automatic reflex than anything else.

The box is small and light. It is a little larger than the palm of John's hand and wrapped in silver paper. It can't be jewelry. John tears the paper open carefully only to find a plain, unmarked black box beneath. Inside it, nestled in tissue paper, is a. . . remote control? A clicker, actually, with just a single black button.

Sherlock has come closer. He's standing in front of John with his hands in his pockets, looking very proud of himself. Now he seizes John by the wrist and tugs him up. "Try it," he suggests. "But not here. In the bedroom."

John gapes at Sherlock, but before he can protest Sherlock is leading him up the stairs and into their bedroom. He pushes John onto the bed, then shrugs off his jacket and starts to unbutton his own shirt, still grinning. John props himself up on his elbows and watches, because if Sherlock is going to put on a show, then he's not going to complain.

Sherlock isn't one for a show, although he's more careless with his clothes today than usual. He lets the shirt drop on the floor, along with the jacket, and pulls off his socks and shoes. The belt hisses out through the loops with a long, sensual whisper that makes John swallow, and then he unbuttons the fly and lets his trousers pool around his legs. He steps out of them, pulls off his pants, and finally he's naked, all three hundred miles of him. "Try it now," he instructs, with a toss of his head.

He does, and Sherlock draws in a breath through his nose and gets hard.

John drops the-- _is_ it a remote control? "What--what just--"

" _Christ_ , that's strange," Sherlock murmurs. He shakes his head and looks down at John through his eyelashes. He scrambles onto the bed on hands and knees, hovering over John, and John flattens himself to the bed. "Do you like it?"

John opens and closes his mouth a few times. "What--what did you--did _I_ do that? With that thing?" When Sherlock nods, he demands, "What did you _do?_ "

"I had an electrode planted," Sherlock says happily. "It stimulates the cavernous nerves of the penis and the sacral nerves. You have the transmitter."

John gapes. "You had an electrode planted."

Sherlock nods and straightens back so that he's sitting on his heels, still kneeling astride John's hips. It can't be a comfortable position, but Sherlock makes it look graceful and effortless. His cock is obscenely hard, jutting away from his body, flushed and heavy with blood. John can't stop staring at it and thinking, _I did that. With the push of a button. Like it was a garage door._

"Why?" John asks, his voice high and tremulous.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John, like he's being dim on purpose, and says, "For your birthday."

"Yes--thank you, by the way--but what made you think I'd want a remote control for your penis?" He can't believe he had to say that. He can't believe any of this is happening. Possibly, in a few minutes, when the shock wears off, he's going to be ill. Sherlock had an electrode planted in his arse so that John could push a button to make him hard. There is nothing not wrong with this scenario.

"You said so," says Sherlock.

"I did--when??"

"Last November," says Sherlock. He sounds a little exasperated, like he can't believe John doesn't remember it. John stares at him blankly, and so he snaps, "November 19th, to be precise. I'd just finished the Henderson case, we had a brilliant shag, and afterwards you said you wished you had a remote control for my cock, so that we could shag like that whenever you wanted."

John stares. He _does_ remember that now. That shag ranks in the top five shags of John's life. (Two others on that list were also Sherlock shags.) It started in the kitchen and ended with a crack in the headboard of Sherlock's bed. John still can't locate one of his socks, gone missing that night, and Sherlock had to wear collared shirts all the next week. Before that, they hadn't had sex in four weeks and John was a tiny bit frustrated. Sherlock's libido is as unpredictable as everything else about him.

"That was a _joke_ ," John says.

"Do you mean you don't like this?" Sherlock draws his fingertips along his erect penis, and John slams his eyes shut against the sight. "You don't like the idea of having control over my erection? Think of the possibilities."

"I don't like you going through utterly unnecessary medical procedures on the off chance that it will make me happy," John says through his teeth, eyes still closed. "Especially not involving your genitalia, Jesus."

"Why not?" Sherlock lies down now, pressing his warm, naked skin up against John's body. He can feel Sherlock's erection against his hip. John's breath hitches. "You did."

John opens his eyes. "That was different. And it did _not_ involve my genitalia."

"How was that different?" Sherlock demands. He braces himself up on his elbows so that he can look down into John's face. His eyes are glacial. He looks like something not from this world, like a fey, or an alien. "That was not different."

"You _told_ me you wanted that," John says tightly.

"You told me you wanted this," Sherlock retorts.

John closes his eyes briefly. "I didn't mean it."

Sherlock's silence is devastating. Finally, he rolls away from John, sprawling on his back next to John on the bed, his feet on the floor, his hand flung out above his head. John notes with some relief that his erection is flagging. "I don't understand why you're allowed to give me gifts, but I'm not."

John brushes his fingers against one of Sherlock's hands. Sherlock doesn't move, which he takes to be a good sign. "Of course you're allowed--"

"I did this myself," Sherlock says. "All by myself, and that's because it's a gift. From me to you. Because I wanted to, and I thought it would make you happy." He turns his head and looks at John. "Do you understand?"

"Ye-es," John says, slowly. Something's off, because that didn't sound like Sherlock talking. Then John realises that's because it's _him_ talking, and for a moment he can feel the bone-deep ache of the incision in his abdomen, even though it's been months since it healed, without even a scar. He can tell when Sherlock knows he knows, because Sherlock smiles, smug and satisfied. "That was a one-off!" John protests.

"So's this." Sherlock puts his hand over John's. "I'm hardly going to get any more electrodes planted after this one."

John's fingers twitch. "But you, you ate--it. You ate it. It's gone. This electrode is. . . rather more permanent."

At that, Sherlock rolls over so that his face is inches from John's, and John's arm is pinned under his torso. He's still clutching John's hand, in a fierce grip that John has seen break wrist bones. "You are _part of me now_ ," he hisses. "You're in my _cells_. John Watson in my arteries, John Watson in my _brain_. There's bits of John Watson in my skin and my hair and my fingernails. I _piss_ John Watson. This isn't anywhere _near_ what you gave me, but it'll have to do." He bites John's collarbone, a little harder than he usually likes it, and John gasps. He feels Sherlock press the little plastic case into his hand. "You like it. Don't tell me you don't like it."

"All right," he whispers. "All right." And he presses the button.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot thank my medical consultant enough for this story. Not only was it more or less her idea in the first place, but she also coached me through [this patent filing](http://patft.uspto.gov/netacgi/nph-Parser?Sect2=PTO1&Sect2=HITOFF&p=1&u=%2Fnetahtml%2FPTO%2Fsearch-bool.html&r=1&f=G&l=50&d=PALL&RefSrch=yes&Query=PN%2F4585005).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Cinnamon Peeler Series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2084835) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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